“Oh, I am a lazy dog,” said Brown cheerfully, “and can’t do without my comforts.  But you don’t know how glad I am to see you.  I can’t stand being alone.  I get most awfully blue and funky, naturally nervous and timid, you know.”

“You do, eh?” said French, pleasantly.  “Well, if you ask me, I believe you’re lying, or your face is.”

“Not a bit, not a bit.  Good thing a fellow has a skin to draw over his insides.  I’d hate the world to see all the funk that there is in my heart.”

French pulled out his pipe, stirred up its contents with his knife, struck a match, and proceeded to draw what comfort he could from the remnants of his last smoke.  The result was evidently not entirely satisfactory.  He began searching his pockets with elaborate care, but all in vain, and with a sigh of disappointment he sank back on the rug.

“Hello!” said Brown, whose eyes nothing seemed to escape, “I know what you’re after.  You have left your pouch.  Well, let that be a lesson to you.  You ought not to indulge habits that are liable any moment to involve you in such distress.  Now look at you, a big, healthy, able-bodied man, on a night like this too, with all the splendour and glory of sky and woods and river about you, with decent company too, and a good fire, and yet you are incapable of enjoyment.  You are an abnormality, and you have made yourself so.  You need treatment; I am going to administer it forthwith.”

He disappeared into his tent, leaving Kalman in a fury of rage, and French with an amused smile upon his face.  After a few moments’ rummaging Brown appeared with a package in his hand.

“In cases like yours,” he said gravely, “I prescribe vapores nicotinenses.  I hope you have forgotten your Latin.  Here is a brand, a very special brand, which I keep for decoy purposes.  Having once used this, you will be sure to come back again.  Try that,” he cried in a threatening tone, “and look me in the eye.”

The anger fled from Kalman’s face, and he began to understand that their new friend had been simply jollying them, and he sincerely hoped that neither he nor French had noticed his recent rage.

French filled his pipe with the mixture, lit it, and took one or two experimental draws, then with a great sigh he threw himself back upon the rug, his arms under his head, and puffed away with every symptom of delight.

“See here, Brown,” he said, sitting up again after a few moments of blissful silence, “this is ‘Old London,’ isn’t it?”

“See here, French, don’t you get off any of your high British nonsense.  ‘Old London,’ indeed!  No, sir, that is ‘Young Canada’; that is, I have a friend in Cuba who sends me the Prince of Wales brand.”

French smoked on for some moments.

“Without being rude, how much of this have you in stock?”

“How much?  Enough to fill your pipe whenever you come round.”

“My word!” exclaimed French.  “You don’t dispense this to the general public, do you?”